Alice-Miranda at Camp 10 (15 page)

‘There you are, Alice-Miranda,' said Mr Plumpton. He walked towards the trio. ‘We need to get going. Miss Reedy telephoned to say that she's had to reshuffle some of the group activities and we're now scheduled to go canoeing this afternoon and have our sleep-out.'

Alice-Miranda desperately wanted to speak with her uncle in private.

‘I think your father's in the reading room, Detective Freeman,' Alice-Miranda said, hoping that the woman would be eager to see him.

Fenella nodded her thanks, but before she could move off, Matron Bright bustled along the hall, carrying a stack of cardboard. ‘Oh hello there, everyone,' she warbled. ‘If you're looking for your father, DS Freeman, he's gone up to his apartment. He said he wasn't feeling well and I'm afraid he's had another one of his little episodes.'

Fenella frowned. She turned to Ed and Alice-Miranda. ‘Thanks for the tour.' She headed for her father's apartment, unable to shake the feeling that she'd seen that Turner painting somewhere before. Perhaps her father had pointed it out during one of their gallery visits.

‘Are the children in the craft room, Mr Plumpton?' Matron Bright asked, eager to get started on the signs for the fair.

The teacher should his head. ‘No, I was just coming to find you. We have to head back now due to a change in the program but I believe Miss Wall's group will be over shortly.'

‘Lovely,' she said. ‘And how are you getting on, Mr Clifton? Is there anything you need?'

‘No, matron. I'm fine, thank you,' Ed replied. But that was far from the truth.

Matron Bright smiled and scooted away to the craft room.

‘Say goodbye to your uncle, Alice-Miranda,' said Mr Plumpton. ‘We'll be back again tomorrow.' And with that the teacher strode across the foyer and outside to meet the waiting group of students.

‘Uncle Ed, what are you going to do?' Alice-Miranda asked urgently. ‘Shouldn't we tell Detective Freeman?'

‘Not yet, I need to see what else I can find,' Ed replied. ‘But how did you recognise that painting?'

Ed Clifton knew that his only niece was an incredibly perceptive child but he found it hard to believe that she could identify stolen artwork.

‘We did a project on Rubens last year and our teacher found some old newspaper articles about a robbery. I thought it was fascinating that something like that could just disappear out of a museum in broad daylight, so I did some more research. It's been gone for quite a few years,' the child explained.

Ed nodded. ‘It's not the only one.'

Alice-Miranda's brown eyes were the size of saucers. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I found another. Last night.'

‘Another Rubens?' Alice-Miranda asked.

‘No, it's a Monet,' the man replied.

‘Have you told Daddy?'

‘I tried but he's away until tonight,' Ed replied. ‘I have to be sure that those are the only two paintings that don't belong to Mother's collection,' Ed said. ‘I suspect there could be at least one more.' He couldn't stop thinking about the Turner landscape that DS Freeman had just spotted.

‘Alice-Miranda!' Millie peered in from the main door. ‘Mr Plumpton's frothing at the mouth out here. You need to hurry up!'

‘Coming!' Alice-Miranda called back.

‘You'd better go, sweetheart. I'll see you tomorrow and hopefully by then I might have figured some of this out,' Ed said with a deep sigh.

Alice-Miranda gave him a hug. ‘Don't worry, Uncle Ed. There's got to be a sensible explanation.'

But Ed Clifton wasn't so sure. Possession of stolen goods was a criminal offence and at the moment the paintings in that basement were in the possession of his brother and sister-in-law.

Several of the Barn Owls scurried along beside Mr Plumpton as the short man trotted to Bagley Hall. He was fully aware that they were running much later than they should have been.

‘Where are we camping, Mr Plumpton? Figgy asked.

‘Somewhere along the river,' the teacher answered.

Sloane scoffed. ‘That's stupid. Why do we have to sleep in a tent when we have perfectly good beds inside Bagley Hall?'

The teacher looked at the girl. Personally he quite agreed and wasn't looking forward to an evening on the ground, but he could hardly say so. ‘It's about the experience, Sloane. You will have to pitch your tent, make a campfire and cook your own meals, as well as digging a toilet. Passing this test is a big part of your Queen's Blue.'

‘Oh, gross,' Sloane sighed. ‘I just won't go.'

‘But you have to. As I said, it's part of the challenge,' Mr Plumpton chided.

‘Not the camp, Mr Plumpton,' Sloane said, shaking her head. ‘The toilet. I won't be going to the toilet while we're out there.'

‘Oh, I see.' Mr Plumpton frowned. He'd been wondering about that himself and hardly relishing the thought.

‘Good luck with that,' Rufus said. ‘Especially if we're cooking our own dinner. I've always found that stew equals p–'

Mr Plumpton cut the lad off. ‘Pemberley, must you always be so … so base?' The teacher sighed and shook his head. Having travelled to Paris with some of the boys from Fayle and now this camp, the man was very glad that he worked in a girls' school. Dealing constantly with toilet humour and unpleasant smells was not his idea of fun.

Sloane shuddered. ‘You're gross, Figgy.'

Millie glanced around, wondering where Alice-Miranda had got to. She spied her at the back of the group on her own. Millie stopped and waited for her friend to catch up.

‘Are you all right?' Millie asked.

Alice-Miranda nodded.

‘You looked like you were somewhere else. When you get like that I wonder if there's something you're not telling me,' Millie said.

‘I was thinking about Mr Freeman. This morning he was talking about a boy called Harry who was his best friend on the estate but it sounded like something terrible had happened between them. And then I found this when I was in the attic with Uncle Ed.' Alice-Miranda pulled the piece of paper out of her pocket.

‘What is it?' Millie asked. The handwriting was very old-fashioned and she could hardly make out any of the words.

‘It's a note about Mr Freeman's father, saying that he was dismissed from the estate because of an incident where a horse was killed.'

‘That's horrible,' said Millie.

‘Mr Freeman got very upset this morning. He said something about it not being his fault – that
Harry made him take the blame. I wonder if it was something to do with this, but the second page is missing. Can you imagine your best friend blaming you for something they did?'

The red-haired girl gulped. Alice-Miranda was her best friend in the world – someone Millie imagined she would be friends with forever. She couldn't believe she'd agreed to help Caprice with her plan to win the medal. ‘No, it's too horrible for words.'

Caprice had fallen back to listen in on their conversation. Sappy little creatures. How sad for that old man to have a friend and then not have him any more. Wouldn't that be terrible? She smiled to herself. Millie was about to find out just how terrible that was.

Millie handed the page back to Alice-Miranda.

But Alice-Miranda hadn't told Millie everything. She was worried about Mr Freeman and what she'd found in the attic, but she was even more perplexed about the painting in the cellar. If only she could spend the night at the house and help her uncle sort things out.

Fenella Freeman knocked on the door of her father's apartment.

‘Coming,' he called, and opened the door a few seconds later.

‘Hi Dad.' Fenella held up the cable in her hand. ‘I forgot the lead for the radio.'

‘What radio?' the old man asked as she walked inside.

The woman sighed. ‘The one I left for you last night, Dad. It's in the kitchen.'

‘Oh, of course.' Donald hurried after her. He picked up a small leather-bound book from the table beside his reclining chair and slammed it shut, hoping his daughter hadn't noticed it.

Fortunately Fenella walked straight through to the kitchen.

‘Dad,' she called. ‘Do you remember a Turner painting that you once took Niall and me to see?'

Donald stuffed the book between the couch cushions and walked into the kitchen.

‘There are a lot of Turners, Fen. He was prolific. And we've probably seen hundreds of them.' Donald wondered where this conversation was coming from and where it was going.

‘I thought it had an opposite too – it was part of a pair, I think,' said Fenella. The cloudy memory swirling at the back of her mind was starting to focus.

‘Sorry, Fen, I don't remember.' Donald shook his head and went to put the kettle on.

‘
Light and Colour
! That's it!' Fenella clapped her hands together.

Donald felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘Really?' he said. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘I just went downstairs with Ed Clifton. Have you met him? He's Hugh Kennington-Jones's long-lost brother. I'm sure you must have heard of him. He's a painter – does some really attractive work, by the looks of what I saw online. He offered to give me a tour of his mother's art collection in the cellar and, I don't know why, but I thought it would be interesting. I've just been down there and as soon as I saw this one, something sparked. It's there, Dad.
Light and Colour
by Turner. They own it,' Fenella frothed.

‘It's probably just a reproduction,' her father said. He was standing in front of the sink and staring out the window.

‘I don't think so. There's so much art down there. I mean, there's one giant jumbled room full
of furniture and then there's this room with a steel door and a combination lock, with racks and racks of artwork. Seriously, how does one family have so much?' Fenella griped. ‘Anyway, I thought you'd like to know, seeing as you always loved that one. Perhaps Ed will take you down to have a look if you ask him.'

Donald gulped. ‘I don't think so, Fen. My old legs are playing up a lot at the moment. I can barely get up and down the stairs.'

‘Come on, Dad. You're all right. I know there wasn't much time for galleries when Mum was sick but you could have gone back to it, you know. Don't tell me you don't miss it.' Fenella walked over and stood shoulder to shoulder with her father.

‘Would you like a cuppa?' the old man asked, ignoring his daughter's question.

Fenella glanced at the clock and realised that she'd been gone far longer than she'd intended. ‘Sorry, Dad, I'd better get back. Besides, I want to do some research and see when the Kennington-Joneses bought that painting. I'm sure I saw it somewhere with you when I was a child. But Ed mentioned that his mother died forty years ago. That can't be right. You have to wonder about these people.
Priceless artworks and they don't even hang them on the walls. More money than sense, wouldn't you say?'

Fenella turned and gave her father a peck on the cheek.

‘I'll see you in a couple of days. The radio's set up, Dad. You just need to turn the dial and tune into whichever station you're keen on these days.'

‘What was he doing down there?' Donald asked as Fenella turned to leave.

‘They're selling the collection,' Fenella replied. ‘He mentioned something about cataloguing and getting it ready for disposal. I told you. You should ask him to take you for a look before it's all gone.'

Donald nodded and closed his eyes. He'd known it would happen one day. He'd just hoped it would be long after he'd gone. He heard the door close and waited a minute before he walked back into the sitting room. He dug his hand in between the cushions and pulled out the small black book. Donald shook his head. His daughter had wanted a big case. And here it was – about to land in her lap. But he couldn't let it happen.